


I am a thousand winds that blow // I am the swift uplifting rush

by thesecondsmile



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Bucky Barnes Feels, Bucky Barnes Needs a Hug, Bucky Barnes Recovering, Canon Divergence - Post-Captain America: The Winter Soldier, M/M, Pie, Post-Captain America: The Winter Soldier, a dog - Freeform, learning to be a person
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-13
Updated: 2021-01-13
Packaged: 2021-03-18 03:55:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,744
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28736835
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thesecondsmile/pseuds/thesecondsmile
Summary: Do not stand at my grave and weep,I am not there.  I do not sleep.***After the fall of the helicarriers, Bucky realises that he is alive and goes on a journey of self-discovery that leads him to make a powerful assertion of self.
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes/Steve Rogers
Comments: 3
Kudos: 46





	I am a thousand winds that blow // I am the swift uplifting rush

**Author's Note:**

> Fic inspired by "Do Not Stand at My Grave and Weep" by Mary Elizabeth Frye.

_ Do not stand at my grave and weep, _

_ I am not there. I do not sleep. _

  
  


The Smithsonian is quiet on a weekday. Even with the whole media shitstorm surrounding the reveal of Project Insight, it hasn’t been enough to stop the capitalist machine and tear the public away from their day jobs. 

He stands in front of the memorial for a long time, staring at the blown up image of a face that looks a lot like his. He sees the rakish grin smouldering under cheeky blue eyes harbouring a secret glint. They say that James Barnes was a charmer with all the girls in Brooklyn chasing after him, beloved by all, and it isn’t hard to understand why. At the news of his death, he can imagine the crowds of people sobbing over word of his untimely demise, the old ladies lamenting over a young life snuffed out too soon, a family mourning the loss of their only son. The only Howling Commando to give his life in service of his country.

_ James Buchanan Barnes. 1917-1944. _

Pulling his navy blue ball cap lower down on his head, he shoves his hands in the pockets of his hoodie and strides wordlessly out of the museum.

  
  


*****

When the helicarriers fall, the blonde man falls with them. 

Against all known mission orders, something about  _ “till the end of the line”  _ has him jumping down along with them. He ends up in the water and pulls the blond man out of the Potomac.

Quickly checking to make sure that it is alive, the Asset stares blankly at the body lying on the bank. It is dripping wet over all the spectacular bruising, and even through the thick tac-suit, some ribs appear to be poking out at a strange angle. Still, the blond man is safe now and protocol  _ “you’re my friend” _ , mission parameters  _ take care of Stevie _ , has been fulfilled.

The Asset has no more orders now. The Asset panics. 

He runs.

  
  


*****

  
  


His mission attire is soaked through with river water, sticking uncomfortably to his skin. It is torn in some places, courtesy of the blond man. It is impeding the Asset’s functionality, so he moves to discard it and find a new set. 

Hanging from some balcony, he spots a set of drying clothes that are suitable for his purposes. He filches a light blue shirt, a pair of utilitarian pants and ends up dressed in an ill-fitting polo shirt and a pair of khakis. His own combat boots will have to suffice for now, even if the squelching is somewhat unpleasant. 

Now that he is properly outfitted, he turns to sketch out the next part of his plan. Whenever he was finished with a mission, he was typically told to find the nearest HYDRA base and wait for extraction, so that is what he sets out to do. His spotty memory furnishes him with the location of a proximate safe house and he walks there briskly.

When he reaches the safe house and tries to key the code drilled into his brain onto the digital keypad, he realises that it is broken. Such a trifling obstacle will not stop him, so he simply breaks the lock and sits down on the hard-backed plastic chair located at the table in the centre of the sparsely furnished apartment. 

He knows that it might be a few hours before his handlers are able to collect him, so he hunkers down for a long wait.

  
  


****

It has been a long time. 

On longer missions when he cannot be supervised for certain periods, he has been instructed to manage his basic bodily functions as needed. The Asset has since relieved himself sixteen times and drunk approximately 15 litres of water from the weak tap in what was likely attempting to be a kitchen.

After a while, he realises that no one is coming for him. This entire mission has been non-standard, from the strange blond man who orchestrated the fall of the helicarriers to the unfamiliar mission orders coming from his head in an oddly high-pitched voice, so he decides not to think too much about it.

It makes no sense to continue to remain in this safe house, with its limited intel and poor plumbing. The logical move is to scout his surroundings and determine what the right course of action will be. To prepare for his newly self-appointed mission, he fills a nondescript rucksack with a few scavenged bottles of water, four guns, six knives with flash bombs attached for easy access, two garrottes and approximately two million dollars in cash. He nods to himself, satisfied. That should suffice for a week at least, not to mention the standard weapons always on his person and the metal arm literally on his person.

He steps out onto the street in bright daylight and walks confidently, adopting the slightly hunched and fatigued anti-social posture that seems to be the norm looking at the people around him. He is confident he will blend in easily. 

He starts scouring the area systematically, taking care to avoid the river which is still surrounded by dozens of officials swarming the site where the debris landed lest he be recognised. After all, it would be inconvenient to have to dispose of a whole squadron of agents and would greatly delay his plans.

Gathering information turns out to be a fairly useless endeavour. Besides the obvious spectacle in the Potomac and a few low level drug deals taking place in some shady allies, there just isn’t much going on. At the distinct lack of activity for him to engage with, he feels a niggling sense of  _ frustration. _

It isn’t fun being defrosted, what with the way it burns his skin and the ice sometimes takes hours to fully recede so he’s left unable to move but fully aware of the prickling sensation of his nerves coming alive, so to have gone through all that for  _ this _ is, is...

He knows that Assets aren’t meant to have emotions, much less negative ones towards HYDRA, but he can’t help the tinge of annoyance when he thinks about what a waste of time and resources this entire mission has been. If they had at least woken him up for training, or even punishment, there would have been some advantage in honing the first of HYDRA and inculcating in him more order through pain.

Nonetheless, there aren’t any handlers around to administer correction in response to his treasonous thoughts so he lets himself stew in his petulant annoyance for a while. The very next beat, he realises something. There are no handlers around, and there haven’t been for several days now at least, which means that no one is here to give him orders or force him into the Chair. 

A slight rebellious urge comes over him and sends a sharp thrill down his spine. Even if they turn up later down the road and beat him senseless for his indiscretions, there is still this delicious little interval where no one can tell him what to do. Even if they skin him and burn him for his disobedience, it might all be worth it. He feels slightly giddy with his newfound freedom and has to tamp down a noise of excitement.

He can do whatever he wants, so he goes to the library.

  
  


*****

  
  


Reading had always been that little guilty indulgence of his they had never quite managed to burn out. 

After all, it is a bit difficult to have a fearsome and deathly efficient assassin who loses a target because he can’t figure out which door says “exit”, or needs someone to help him differentiate his ABCs. Leaving words in, however, had meant that while he could identify the right documents to retrieve from a heavily guarded office and exterminate any potential threats all by himself, he could also catch little snippets of writing from various confidential files and something as mundane as the Classifieds section of the day’s newspaper. It may not have seemed particularly interesting to anyone else, but to him, it was a way that he could stay connected to the outside world and try to temper the maddening vertigo of being whisked from decade to decade in the span of what was less than a day for him. Most of all, reading the signs on the wall and the complicated details of the mechanism of the fire alarm was his little reprieve from the pain when they had him cut open and cuffed to a freezing medical table under the sickly yellow lights.

When he had discovered the institutions scattered around the world that were entire facilities dedicated to books on one of his missions (even as he dispatched the target, secretly, he mourned how the blood splatters that spilled onto the pages might have made some of the words harder to read), he tucked that little detail into a little corner of his patchwork brain and hoped that one day, he might have the luxury of exploring one.

It seemed like that day had come.

During his investigation of the city, a kindly old woman had taken in his scruffy hair and rumpled clothes and pointed him in the direction of a public library where she assured him that he could go in and wash up a little and the librarians wouldn’t mind. At that moment, he had nodded and murmured a gruff thanks, eager to leave the uncomfortable intimacy of a private conversation, but now he was immensely grateful for the directions.

The library is housed in a modest little building, slightly run-down but still with a warm, inviting atmosphere emanating from its rustic brick walls. It’s perfect. Half-buzzing with excitement, he quickly walks through the glass doors, relishing in the cool rush of air that greets him.

As he makes his way past neatly placed bookshelves filled with glorious books over carpeted floors, he almost expects someone to stop him and force him to leave. As if someone like him shouldn’t be allowed to be in this quiet little sanctuary. In reality, all that happens is a couple cursory glances by disinterested teenagers and a welcoming smile from the mousy bespectacled woman manning the front desk.

While he wants nothing more but to delve into the piles of books immediately, he is acutely aware that he is getting too far over the line of “au naturale” and figures that he should probably take the old woman’s suggestion and go clean himself up. 

The toilet is a dinky little thing, with just one sink and generic white tiles lining the floor. He tries to tame his raccoon locks and wash off some of the grime that has collected on his skin over the days, but it’s a tall order. It’s been a while since he’s hydrated himself so he takes a few drinks of the cool water coming from the tap. It tastes slightly funny but he’s experienced worse, so he fills up his bottles, does his best to fix up his greasy clothes and returns to the books. 

He doesn’t quite know where to start, so he picks a shelf and starts browsing. Scanning through a random selection of books, he flits aimlessly from shelf to shelf. There’s no rhyme or reason to what he’s reading, so by the time he reaches the Science section, he’s amassed quite a bit of information on Nepal’s nomadic tribes, the latest developments in information technology and a somewhat explicit account of a Russian vampyric romance. 

Slightly overwhelmed by the sheer amount of knowledge he has acquired, he does a quick perusal of the last shelf dazedly. He isn’t sure what draws him to the last book he picks out, but it might be the image of the two smiling children on the cover.

He opens the book proudly proclaiming itself to be  _ Fun Science for Kids!  _ and flips through, stopping on a random page with a picture of a plant in one corner and a kitten in the other. 

_ All living things need food, water and oxygen to survive. _

At this, he stops. Suddenly, the gnawing ache in his stomach has a name. Hunger. He had been told by HYDRA to ensure that imbibed a sufficient amount of liquids every day to ensure that he would remain in optimal condition, and he knew enough about drowning to guess that he needed to breathe oxygen as well. If the hollow cavern in his stomach was right, he also needed food.

If that was true, and he needed food, water and oxygen to survive, did that mean that he was a living thing? 

A new troubling feeling grows in his chest. He had been told that his name was the Asset, that he was a weapon, HYDRA’s perfect machine that would help them shape the century. But something in him is screaming, and he thinks he might be alive.

If he is alive, he needs food. He doesn’t recall HYDRA ever feeding him, but he knows that it’s been days since he’s ingested anything. 

He walks out the library and finds a hot dog stand on the pavement. He eats ten of them. He throws up.

  
  


*****

After the hot dog fiasco, he figures that suspicious processed meats might not have been the best way to start introducing himself to solid food. He wanders freely around the streets in the meantime, looking for something that might go down a little easier.

Something catches his eye. The fluorescent blinking of a neon pink sign proudly announcing Washington’s Best Classic Diner stirs something deep in his memory. He smells the mouthwatering scent of fried food and sugar and follows it blindly. He enters the establishment and is greeted by a tinkling of bells and a warm aroma of freshly baked pie.

He’s led to a pastry case where he stares transfixed at the immaculate golden, buttery crust glinting with crystalline grains of sugar, hiding what is almost certainly a rich, decadent filling under the flaky pastry. He looks at the pie and he  _ wants. _

His perfect fantasy is disrupted by a wrinkled hand slamming down on the top of the case, and a gruff voice calling out, “You want some pie boy or you just gonna stand there drooling over my display case?”

He startles, jerking up to see a wizened old man scowling at him. Still, he feels the pie call to him and his entire consciousness is tunneling into this mission to acquire it. Dumbly, he nods.

“5 bucks for a slice.”

The message fails to compute. With the hot dogs, he just chucked a handful of notes at the bored hot dog vendor before grabbing the hot dogs and scarfing them down. He doesn’t understand what is standing between him and the pie. His confusion must show on his face, because the man’s frown deepens and he lets out a put-upon sigh. 

The old man eyes him suspiciously. “You don’t know what money is, son? Where have you been?”

“Russia.”

The old man snorts derisively and nods in understanding. “That’ll do it. Those old communist Russkies, all free food and no hard work.”

He sees Bucky’s metal arm glint in the sunlight. “You a soldier?”

Bucky distantly recalls someone calling him  _ Sergeant Barnes _ . He nods. 

“Well then, I’m not about charity and handing out free things, but my back isn’t what it used to be and I need someone to help me move around some of the heavy bags around back. You look like a strong young man, work for me for say, 4 hours a day and I’ll give you $50 bucks, sounds good?” 

He still has $1.9 million dollars left (more or less depending on how much he threw at the hot dog seller) so he’s not in need of any money, but any excuse to be close to pie is one he’ll take. He agrees readily and just like that, he has a new job.

  
  


*****

  
  


Work at Washington’s Best Classic Diner is strangely therapeutic. He gets into the routine of heading down to the diner from the HYDRA safehouse. He enjoys the rhythm of the manual labour, and the strain in his muscles just makes the pie at the end of the day all the more sweeter. He even thinks he’s starting to grow on George if the solid thumps on the back are anything to go by. 

His shifts at the diner are only on the weekdays, so come Saturday, he has nothing to do. The library is closed for the day so all his sources of engagement are unavailable. He officially has nothing to do and so he turns to the ultimate fountain of guidance for all those lost in Washington.

The tourist information brochure tells him to go to the Smithsonian, so he does.

He looks at a collection of Native American jewelry and investigates an exhibition of antique Romanov era Russian dolls. It’s a sufficiently interesting way to pass the morning, but then he is lured to a hall with a black and white video playing in the background by a photo of a small blond man with fierceness in his eyes.

He has many feelings about the small spitfire that he can’t quite place. He stares at the image of his face and he instinctively puts them together. He comes out of the museum with a head swimming with floating thoughts and a strong need to take care of something.

As if serendipity is shining down on him, he hears a small series of whimpers that snap him out of his dazed state. He traces the noise back to behind a dumpster and finds a small yappy puppy in a box. There is only one thing he can do in that situation.

He names it Steve, brings him home to the safehouse and warms a dish of chicken.

  
  


*****

  
  


The safehouse is suitable for him. He can deal with the windowless grey walls and the cold plastic furniture. He can deal with the unreliable plumbing and flickering lights. But Steve deserves better. Steve needs a home.

There’s only one place that has ever been home to him so he ends up in Brooklyn. He raids another HYDRA safehouse where he stashes Steve for the day, complete with bowls of water and a small mountain of dog toys purchased from the neighbourhood PetCo. With a reluctance that surprises him, he leaves Steve there with promises to return for him soon and starts his journey to Manhattan.

An hour later, he finds himself at Avengers tower.

He knows that there are probably several cameras tracking his every move once he stepped into New York and that’s fine with him. He walks confidently into the building, the air of a man on a mission, and the sea of people that have gathered in the lobby part naturally for him. 

At the end of the crowd, he sees the blonde haired man again, staring furtively at him with a desperate yearning in his eyes.

Without missing a beat, he strides forward surely and pulls the man into a tight hug. Immediately, he feels strong arms wrap around him and squeeze just as tight. He can feel Steve’s frame shaking with held in sobs and pulls him in even closer. They stay there in a tight embrace, swaying slightly in the middle of the lobby of Avengers tower, uncaring of the audience they have attracted. Bucky breathes in the scent of that he has long since forgotten but someone still knows as well as his own. It feels like coming home.

  
  


*****

  
  


Steve is standing at the podium, unfazed by the flashing lights and shouting reporters. Bucky is waiting backstage, sweating nervously at the prospect of having to face the mob himself.

He wipes down sweaty palms onto the rich blue pants he has not worn in decades.

He hears Steve’s voice rise over the crowd followed by an excited hush fall over the room and he knows that’s his cue. He drums up every ounce of the courage that he doesn’t feel and steps out onto the stage. 

He hears the crowd swell with questions but locks eyes with Steve instead. He takes a deep breath, then stares piercingly into the eyes of each reporter craning with bated breath for his words, firm and unwavering.

“My name is James Buchanan Barnes. I was born on March 10, 1917 and I was a Sergeant with the Howling Commandos during World War 2. In January 1945, I fell from a train carriage over the Alps during a mission to capture German scientist Armin Zola and was presumed dead. I was captured by the Russian division of HYDRA and held as a prisoner of war where my left arm was amputated and replaced with a metal one, intended to be used as a weapon.”

The room breaks out into chaos, reporters clambering forward shouting questions and waving cameras in his face. He can feel Steve frown, moving forward to try to establish order over the chaos but Bucky simply raises his hand in a firm gesture. The noise stops and he moves on.

“During my time in captivity, I was tortured and brainwashed until I became a mindless weapon, an assassin for HYDRA known as the Winter Soldier. I committed hundreds of crimes around the world under their direction and was suspended in cryogenic freezing when I was not activated for a mission.”

At his next words, the crowd quietens down into hushed whispers, the weight of his ordeal sinking in on everyone as they feel the solemnity of the moment. He waits a beat then continues on bravely.

“In May 2014, during the launch of Project Insight, I faced Captain America as he was taking down one of the helicarriers and successfully broke my programming. I have since been recovering under the custody of the SHIELD with the support of the Avengers.”

The room is once again awash with rapid conversation and his vision is spotty with the flashes from cameras aimed at his face, but he feels the solid presence of Steve behind him, grounding him. 

“My name is James Buchanan Barnes. I was lost for a long time, but I have found myself and I am healing. I am here and I am free. I am alive.”

_ Do not stand at my grave and cry, _

_ I am not there. I did not die. _

**Author's Note:**

> "now that you've finished your first fic, it's a good time to take a break and focus on school!"
> 
> The very next day, I come out with this. I was really just thinking about the poem and how it works so well with Bucky, and this story about him learning to be human again, independently of Steve but still with him in mind, just came out. The next fic lined up will definitely take a bit longer while I catch up with real life, but it is very exciting I promise.
> 
> Kudos and comments greatly appreciated, let me know if you liked it :-)


End file.
